I wince inwardly, trying not to think of the pain that would have caused.…
“I’ll know more once I make the Y-incision. But I’m comfortable telling you now, preliminarily, that the cause of death is massive hemorrhage. The manner of death is homicide.”
CHAPTER 10
Twenty-three hours missing
You put in the hours. You do the research. You do all the right things. All of it with vigor and hope and heart. Still, a seven-year-old little girl is missing. A sixty-year-old grandmother is dead. A community is on edge. And the cops don’t have a fucking clue.
I know it’s the exhaustion that’s hijacked my frame of mind and dragged my thoughts to a place I know better than to venture. A smarter cop would go home for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, get a fresh start with a clear head and then get back to work.
Wind and rain thrash my office window. Though it’s not yet closing time for most shops and businesses, Main Street is deserted. The first major cold front of the fall season blew through around noon. Weather usually doesn’t bother me. This afternoon, I’m cold to the bone. I can’t help but wonder if Elsie Helmuth is out there, wet and shivering with cold, frightened out of her mind, and hurting. Or worse …
“Chief?”
I glance up to see my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie Metzger, come through the door, a carafe of coffee in one hand, a stack of paper in the other.
I shove my cup toward her. “Thanks.”
She pours and sets the stack in front of me. “Ladies’ Club of Painters Mill had these flyers printed. Volunteers put out nine hundred of them today all over the county. I thought you might want to see them.”
I glance at the top sheet. Have you seen me? There’s no photo of Elsie Helmuth, just her name and a physical description. Seven years old. Female. Special Needs. Born: March 14, 2012. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Height: 3′9″. Weight: 60 lbs.
It’s well done, with all the right information, including the location of where she went missing, the tip line number, and the numbers for the sheriff’s department as well as the Painters Mill PD.
“I think we could probably use a miracle, too, if you’ve got one handy,” I tell her.
She shoots me a sympathetic look, and for the first time since I found Mary Yoder lying on the kitchen floor of the Schattenbaum farm, I feel like crying.
Please don’t be dead.…
“Anything else I can do?” she asks.
“Check the tip line again, will you?” I ask.
“Sure.” Jodie looks at me as if she wants to say something else, but she goes through the door without comment.
Earlier, I talked to Tomasetti about the gravel the coroner discovered in Mary Yoder’s mouth. He agrees it’s likely some strange extension of the note found at the scene. All he can do at this point is have the lab run a comparison to see if the gravel came from the driveway of the Schattenbaum place, which would likely mean the killer simply scooped it up and, after he killed Yoder, shoved it into her mouth. If the comparison shows the gravel didn’t come from the driveway, we start checking with aggregate dealers in the area. It’s a long shot, but worth pursuing at this point.
I open the manila folder in front of me and look at my copy of the note.
Food gained by fraud tastes sweet, but one ends up with a mouth full of gravel.
The original is printed in pencil. The lettering inept and juvenile. The words are from Psalm 94, the translation from the King James Bible, which is often used by the Amish, and has to do with the ills of receiving something undeserved through deception. What does it mean in terms of the case?
Tucking the note back in the folder, I look down at the yellow legal pad in front of me. I’ve filled most of it with stray thoughts and theories and a summary of what I know. I’m a big fan of free writing, turning my hand loose with a pen and clean sheet of paper. Sometimes, it’s a good way to open the channel to those thought processes that can get lost in the clutter. This evening, it gives me nothing.
I start at the beginning of the pad and page through, skimming notes I’ve already read a hundred times. I go to the map, study the red circles that indicate the residences of six registered sex offenders. All of them have been interviewed twice. All but one have alibis. I look at the aerial photos of the Schattenbaum place. The proximity to the creek, which was also searched.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
When the words begin to blur I reach for my reading glasses and keep going. I read the police report again. My description of the girl. Though I wrote the words less than twenty-four hours ago, it seems like a hundred years.
Elsie Helmuth. Age 7. Brn. Brn. Ht: 3′9″. Wt: 60 lbs.
A caution light flares somewhere inside my head. I blink at the page, trying to pinpoint what set it off. I glance at the Missing flyer again. Nothing there. No damn photo. I reach for the envelope from the Holmes County General Health District and, for the second time, I skim through the birth certificates of the Helmuth children. Names. Birth dates. County of birth.
Irma. 5-11-2008. Holmes Cnty.
Bonnie. 8-4-2009. Holmes Cnty.
Gracie. 9-19-2010. Holmes Cnty.
Elam. 11-13-2011. Holmes Cnty.
Becky. 12-27-2012. Holmes Cnty.
Luke. 2-1-2013. Holmes Cnty.
Annie. 1-31-2014. Holmes Cnty.
Why the hell isn’t there a birth certificate for Elsie? Miriam Helmuth said the baby came quickly and there was no time for the midwife to arrive. As a result, they never filed the paperwork and simply hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
I go back to the Missing flyer, trying to figure out what had caused that weird flutter in my brain. Have you seen me? Elsie Helmuth. Seven years old. Female. Special Needs. Born: March 14, 2012. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Height: 3′9″. Weight: 60 lbs.
“Wait,” I mutter.
A tremor runs through my body when I look at the birth date. March 14, 2012. I stare at the date, take off my cheaters, put them back on. The date stares back at me in black and white. I go back to the birth certificates and look at the birth dates of the other children. If Elam was born in November of 2011 and Becky was born in December of 2012, there’s no way Miriam could have given birth to Elsie in March of 2012.
“Jodie?” I call out to reception.
She appears at the door to my office. “Yeah, Chief?”
“Call the Ladies’ Club and find out who put together the information for the Missing flyer. I’m specifically looking for Elsie Helmuth’s birth date. Find out where they got the information and confirm that it’s correct.”
“Sure. When do you need it?”
“Five minutes ago.”
“Okeydoke.”
Leaning forward, I rub my temples, trying in vain to jump-start a brain in dire need of sleep.
I’ve just finished writing the names of the children and their birth dates when Jodie appears in the doorway. “I just talked to Kelly Hernandez with the Ladies’ Club. She got the girl’s birth date from Miriam Helmuth.”
* * *
I pull into the driveway of the Helmuth farm and barrel down the lane. Though it’s dark and pouring rain, I pass several men on horseback braving the weather. Half a dozen more are walking along the shoulder; some are wearing slickers and holding flashlights, others are soaked to the skin and carrying lanterns. Despite the fact that they’ve had no luck, that they’ve already covered the area a dozen times, they’re still looking. I wonder if they know that Miriam and Ivan Helmuth are keeping secrets.
It’s possible one or more of the children’s birth dates are incorrect—a typo or computer error—but not likely. I didn’t take the time to check. If my suspicions are correct, Miriam Helmuth didn’t give birth to Elsie. But if not Miriam, then who? Does it have anything to do with the abduction?
I park a few yards from two buggies parked side by side, the horses hunched against the rain, and I hightail it to the door. I enter the house without knocking. The smells of lye soap and bleach greet me as
I pass through the mudroom, where two Amish women are operating the old wringer washing machine. A third woman hangs boys’ trousers on a clothesline that’s stretched across the room. I nod at them as I duck beneath the clothes and I head for the kitchen.
I find two of the children sitting at the kitchen table. Miriam is at the stove, stirring something in a heavy saucepan with a wooden spoon. She looks exhausted and pale, with dark half-moons beneath eyes that don’t meet mine.
“Hi, Chief Katie!” Annie calls out.
“Did you bring Elsie?” Luke asks simultaneously.
“Hello back at you.” I muster a smile that feels plastic on my face. “We haven’t found Elsie yet, but we’re looking hard.”
“We miss her!”
“She’s probably hungry!”
“And cold!”
The words strike like punches to a place that’s tender and bruised. I look at Miriam to find her eyes already on me. “I need to talk to you,” I say. “Privately.”
The woman twists off the burner knob and sets down the spoon. Looking at her children, she brings her hands together. “Pudding’s just about done,” she tells them. “Go wash your hands and faces. Luke, go get your brother in the barn.”
The kids scramble from their chairs. Luke grins at me as he heads for the back door.
“That’ll buy us a few minutes.” Grabbing a mug, Miriam walks to the table and sinks into a chair. “You bring news?”
I take the chair across from her. I’m hyperaware of that ticking clock that has embedded itself in my brain. An unbearable amount of time has passed since the girl went missing; there’s no time for niceties. I’m too tired to make the effort. Worse, I’m pissed off, because I’m pretty sure this woman has been lying to me, so I get right to the point of my visit.
“Elam was born in November of 2011,” I tell her. “Becky was born in December 2012. Miriam, there’s no way you could have had Elsie in between.”
The woman blinks at me. “But … she came early, you know. Just four pounds of her.”
“When was Elsie born?”
For the first time she looks flustered. “The babies came so close together sometimes I lose track.…”
“Stop lying to me.” I smack my hand against the table. “Your little girl’s life is in danger and all I’m getting from you are lies.”
“I’m not. I just … I got a little confused on the dates is all.”
I rise, go to her, bend, so that my face is less than a foot away from hers. Now that I’m close, I see the telltale signs of sleepless nights and stress piled atop of stress. The whites of her eyes are a road map of capillaries. Lips dry and cracked. Breath that smells of coffee and sour milk. Worst of all is the abiding terror that’s got its claws sunk deep into her, a relentless beast devouring her from the inside out.
“Elsie isn’t your biological child, is she?” I say quietly.
The woman stares at me, unspeaking for the span of several heartbeats. Then the flesh of her cheeks begin to quiver. Her body follows suit, shaking so violently I’m afraid she’s going to vibrate off the chair and fall to a heap at my feet.
“She’s mine,” she whispers. “She’s always been mine. In every way.”
Generally speaking, the Amish are stoic when it comes to displays of emotion. That’s not to say they don’t grieve, or have tempers or feel fear; like the rest of us, they do and just as keenly. But they’re not prone to outbursts, not even children.
Evidently, Miriam Helmuth has reached her breaking point. Her child is missing. Her mother is dead—violently murdered. If I’m going to get anything out of her, now is the time to do it, so I push.
“The choice you make at this moment may be the only thing that saves your daughter’s life,” I say. “Think about that before you lie to me again.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she lowers her head.
“Do you know where she is?” I ask.
“God, no.”
“Do you know who has her?”
Closing her eyes tightly, she shakes her head, grappling for control, her emotions teetering on the edge of some bottomless abyss. “I don’t know,” she cries. “I don’t know why they did what they did.”
“Who are ‘they’ and what did they do?” I ask.
A sob escapes her. She puts a trembling hand over her mouth, holds it tightly against her face, and then she doubles over as if she’s in physical pain.
I wait, impatience and compassion and anger warring inside me.
After a moment, she sits up and meets my gaze. “They brought her to us,” she whispers. “In the middle of the night. This screaming, red-faced little baby.”
“Elsie?”
She nods. “She was a tiny thing. Just hours old. Hungry. Frightened. Wanting her mamm and some milk.”
The reality of what I’m hearing strikes me with the force of a blow. The floor shifts beneath my feet. I almost can’t believe my ears.
“Who brought her to you?” I ask.
“The midwife. The bishop from Scioto County.”
“I need names.”
Scrubbing her fingertips over her eyes, she looks at me through the layers of misery and exhaustion and guilt. “I don’t know.”
Lowering myself into the chair, I pull out my notebook and stare down at the blank page. I almost can’t get my head around what I’ve been told. What it could mean in terms of a missing little girl and the brutal murder of her grandmother.
“Who’s the baby’s mother?” I ask.
“No one ever said, and I didn’t ask. They were secretive about it.”
“Who else was involved?”
“The bishop. The midwife.” She hesitates. “Bishop Troyer.”
The floor shifts again, violently this time, a small boat tossed about on a raging sea.
“Bishop Troyer?” I echo the name dumbly. A man I’ve known my entire life. A man of staunch beliefs and resolute faith. A leader admired not only by me, but by the entire Amish community. But he’s tough, too. When I was a troubled teen and didn’t follow the rules set forth by the Ordnung, my parents put me before him. It was an experience I never forgot. It didn’t keep me from breaking the rules, but I made certain neither my parents nor the bishop found out about it. Tonight, I can’t help but wonder: How is it that a man who had judged me so harshly once upon a time could commit his own sin with absolute impunity?
“Why did they bring the baby to you, Miriam?”
“I don’t know. You have to understand, Chief Burkholder, it was the kind of thing that wasn’t to be discussed or questioned.”
“What can you tell me about the midwife?”
“All I know is she wasn’t from around here. She was older. I didn’t recognize her. I assumed the bishop brought her along to care for the baby.”
“I need more.”
The Amish woman shakes her head.
“Surely they told you something.”
“They said nothing to me, but I listened. From what I gathered, the baby’s mamm was … troubled. I think there was something wrong with her. Something not right in her life. So much that she couldn’t care for her own baby.”
“Do you mean health problems? Mental problems? Was she dying and didn’t have family? What?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Was there any paperwork? Or documents?”
“Not that I saw.”
I stare at her, trying to come to terms with what was done. The ramifications. What comes next. “Why did you agree to take the baby?” I ask. “Didn’t you wonder where she came from? Why she was being given to you? Did you think about the parents? That it might cause problems down the road?”
She raises her gaze to mine. “We did it because the bishop asked us to. Adopt her, I mean. Children are a gift from God, you know, and I knew that little girl was in trouble. She’s one of the special ones, you know, with the problems and all. She needed us. I figured her mamm might have some problem, too. I thought we were probably helping her, as well.” Sh
e shrugs. “If she was sick or dying. If she didn’t have a husband or family.”
“Does Ivan know all of this?”
“Yes.”
“Was your mother involved?” I ask.
“I think she knew about it. I don’t know how much. I asked later, but she wouldn’t speak of it.”
“Did Elsie’s biological parents agree to relinquish her? Or was Elsie … taken? Removed from the home?”
“No one said.”
We fall silent, the only sound coming from the tap of rain against the window. The hum of the propane refrigerator. The white noise of our thoughts.
“Miriam, do Elsie’s biological parents know where she was sent?” I ask.
Her eyes widen. A wild and primal fear tears across her face. “You think they did this?”
Sie is meiner. She’s mine.
“I think it’s a possibility we have to consider.”
Leaning forward, she puts her face in her hands and begins to sob. “Oh dear Lord, how could this happen? And why now?”
I don’t know what to say. What to think. Staring at her as she sobs, I don’t even know what to feel. “Is there anything you can tell me that might help me figure this out?”
She straightens, raises her gaze to mine. “The notes.” She whispers the words as if she’s frightened someone might hear her. “I didn’t tell you … Ivan thought it best if we didn’t say anything.”
“What notes?” But I’m thinking about the note found on Mary Yoder’s body. A detail that was not made public.
Rising, Miriam goes to the kitchen drawer, pulls out a small devotional book, opens it and pulls out some papers. “Three of them now. The latest this morning. In the mailbox.” She unfolds three sheets of lined notebook paper and slides them across the table to me. They look as if they’ve been folded and unfolded a dozen times. The same type of paper as the note found on Mary Yoder.
Ill-gotten treasures have no lasting value, but righteousness delivers from death.
As I read, I’m thinking about evidence. Fingerprints. The possibility of DNA. Matching the paper to a specific notebook or manufacturer. A retailer. The prospect of CCTV or even a check or credit card.
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